Arthur Machen's "N"

 I recently reread the Arthur Machen story, “N,” and have been thinking about its place in the canon of writings that have influenced the modern psychogeography movement, as well as the underlying mystical concepts that Machen employed in writing it. I find it easy to connect those ideas to Novalis’ Magical Idealism, as well as his theories about poetry and the Golden Age.

     The first time that I read “N,” I was initially troubled by what seemed its lack of a central message or point, beyond being a celebration of the streets of London and the pleasures of exploring urban life in general. Lin Carter, the fiction writer and historian of the fantasy genre in literature, praised Machen’s ability to make the streets of London and the stories that he found there into a veritable Arabian Nights. Carter described the world of Machen’s episodic novel, The Three Impostors, as “Bagdad on the Thames.”

    It took me several readings to see beyond the sumptuous urban landscape that Machen describes in “N”, and also, his characters as more than just former or current practitioners of dérive, the term that Guy DeBord and the Situationists used to describe an activity where “one or more persons during a certain period drop their usual motives for movement and action, their relations, their work and leisure activities, and let themselves be drawn by the attractions of the terrain and the encounters they find there.” [Guy Debord, "Theory of the Dérive," Internationale Situationniste #2 1956] Psychogeography was the name that the Situationists gave to the study of this type of activity, but the term is now commonly used to refer to its practice as well, having superseded dérive, at least in the English-speaking world.

    Machen’s “N” begins with a social gathering of old men who share their glorious memories of the streets of London during the bygone era of their youth. These nostalgic reveries lead to a discussion of a magical park in the (fictional) neighborhood of Canon’s Park, in Stoke Newington, part of an inner London borough. One of the old men mentions that a cousin once visited Canon’s Park and found a place there that possessed unearthly beauty. Another of the participants in the discussion, who grew up in Stoke Newington, insists that no such park exists. A short time later, one of the participants in the discussion, who has been curious about this mysterious park, encounters a mention of it in a book. The author of the book puts forth several strange theories related to the park, which he glimpsed for a moment with his own eyes. At one point, the author of the book writes, “Some have declared that it lies within our own choice to gaze continually upon a world of equal or even greater wonder and beauty…This method, or art, or science, or whatever we choose to call it is simply concerned to restore the delights of the primal Paradise…” An acquaintance of the author, who shows him the mystical park, suggests, based on ideas that he attributes to William Law and Jacob Böhme, that matter itself was, before the Fall, “a soft and ductile substance, which could be moulded by the imagination of uncorrupted man into whatever form he chose it to assume.” I want to remark that this is an idea which somewhat resembles Novalis’ Magical Idealism with its belief in the power of the imagination to mold reality itself, as well as his thoughts on the Golden Age as a state of the individual’s oneness with all things, physical and spiritual, that he derived from Hemsterhuis. It is also important to note that Novalis equated the Golden Age with the innocence of childhood, and to recall that the old men at the beginning of the story reminiscence about the London of their youth as a kind of lost paradise which has passed away forever.

     This may be a moment to comment on something that I noticed about the structure of the story. Aside from my struggling with the unfolding theme, which I came to comprehend only with difficulty, I realized that Machen’s method of piecing together the story by having a character compile its elements from random conversations, careful enquiries, and books, was something that I had encountered before. The slow buildup of evidence of the impossible, or at least the supernatural, leading to an incredible conclusion, reminded me—on a purely literary level—of certain stories of Jorge Luis Borges, “La otra muerte,” for instance. It’s interesting to note that Borges was a huge fan of Machen, and also of Novalis.

    But to get back to the story and its theme: eventually, more reports of the park, which appears to be a veritable Garden of Eden, convince the old man who was part of the original group at the beginning of the story that the place actually exists. He meets a young man one day on the streets of Stoke Newington who verifies its existence as well. The story ends rather abruptly, which I think was partially responsible for my initial feeling that it seemed to end up somewhere, but personally, I couldn’t tell where that was. However, several re-readings finally led me to the conclusion that those who experienced the Edenic park were true psychogeographers. They were all people who experienced and accepted the park as a magical place because they came to it without agendas, certainties, or calculations. As in childhood, they were able to see the world and its wonders with innocent eyes and imagination, in the “ambience of play,” [Debord], and without needing or desiring to commodify or rationalize their experience. The old men who had only their memories of a lost Eden, and who were “now sitting among desolate rocks, by bitter steams,” having lost their way (like the young apostate in Hesse’s Die Morgenlandfahrt [«Er hat es sich schwergemacht, den Glauben wiederzufinden…»]), could not return to innocence. But those who saw and encountered the prelapsarian park were still living the experience of wonder, and the city and the world were still places of “magical habitations, supernal dwellings, more desirable to the eye than the fabled pleasure dome of the Eastern potentate, or the bejewelled hall built by the Genie for Aladdin in the Arabian tale.”

We Act in Faith

We act in faith - and miracles occur. In consequence, we are tempted to make the miracles the ground of our faith. The cost of such weakness is that we lose the confidence of faith. Faith is, faith creates, faith carries. It is not derived from, nor created, nor carried by anything except its own reality.

                                                                                   --Dag Hammarskjöld, Vägmärken

This is a great paradox. People who make miracles the basis for their faith run the risk of encountering all sorts of skepticism, doubt, and even theological problems. Faith can’t be about miracles, because it springs from a higher certainly. Miracles are gifts, but the greatest gift is faith. I have, myself, witnessed probable miracles on a few occasions, given the definition that a miracle is an event that entails divine intervention in the suspension of natural physical law. But what is that compared to faith; to the relationship with God from which true faith is derived? What does faith need but the love of the Other, the person that one has faith in?

     St. Alonzo Rodriguez (in his Autobiography) said of his own supernatural experiences: “So great is my aversion to such things that I would prefer not to speak or write about them and that no one should know of them. For they bring more danger than profit and the world esteems them highly, though there is little light in them, when it should make much of solid virtues. Sanctity consists in the love of God and of one’s neighbor, and in profound humility, patience, obedience, and resignation, and the Imitation of Christ our Lord.”

     In his Das Allgemeine Brouillon (a title which I borrowed when I give this space a name), Novalis said, “All faith is wondrous and wonder-working.”

December 12, 2025

 

Nach dir, Maria, heben

Schon tausend Herzen sich.

In diesem Schattenleben

Verlangten sie nur dich.

Sie hoffen zu genesen

Mit ahndungsvoller Lust –

Drückst du sie, heil'ges Wesen,

An deine treue Brust.

 

Following you, Mary,

A thousand hearts are eagerly arising.

In this shadowy life,

They long only for you

And hope to be healed

With a sense of joyful expectation—

If you, holy one,

Will press them to your faithful breast.

 

                     —Novalis, Hymnen an die Nacht

Dreams

In wunderliche Träume flossen die Gedanken seiner Seele zusammen. Ein tiefer blauer Strom schimmerte aus der grünen Ebene heraus. Auf der glatten Fläche schwamm ein Kahn. Mathilde saß und ruderte. Sie war mit Kränzen geschmückt, sang ein einfaches Lied, und sah nach ihm mit süßer Wehmut herüber. Seine Brust war beklommen. Er wußte nicht warum. Der Himmel war heiter, die Flut ruhig. Ihr himmlisches Gesicht spiegelte sich in den Wellen. Auf einmal fing der Kahn an sich umzudrehen. Er rief ihr ängstlich zu. Sie lächelte und legte das Ruder in den Kahn, der sich immerwährend drehte. Eine ungeheure Bangigkeit ergriff ihn. Er stürzte sich in den Strom; aber er konnte nicht fort, das Wasser trug ihn. Sie winkte, sie schien ihm etwas sagen zu wollen, der Kahn schöpfte schon Wasser; doch lächelte sie mit einer unsäglichen Innigkeit, und sah heiter in den Wirbel hinein. Auf einmal zog es sie hinunter. Eine leise Luft strich über den Strom, der ebenso ruhig und glänzend floß, wie vorher. Die entsetzliche Angst raubte ihm das Bewußtsein. Das Herz schlug nicht mehr. Er kam erst zu sich, als er sich auf trockenem Boden fühlte. Er mochte weit geschwommen sein. Es war eine fremde Gegend. Er wußte nicht wie ihm geschehen war. Sein Gemüt war verschwunden. Gedankenlos ging er tiefer ins Land. Entsetzlich matt fühlte er sich. Eine kleine Quelle kam aus einem Hügel, sie tönte wie lauter Glocken. Mit der Hand schöpfte er einige Tropfen und netzte seine dürren Lippen. Wie ein banger Traum lag die schreckliche Begebenheit hinter ihm. Immer weiter und weiter ging er, Blumen und Bäume redeten ihn an. Ihm wurde so wohl und heimatlich zu Sinne. Da hörte er jenes einfache Lied wieder. Er lief den Tönen nach. Auf einmal hielt ihn jemand am Gewande zurück. »Lieber Heinrich«, rief eine bekannte Stimme. Er sah sich um, und Mathilde schloß ihn in ihre Arme. »Warum liefst du vor mir, liebes Herz?« sagte sie tiefatmend. »Kaum konnte ich dich einholen.« Heinrich weinte. Er drückte sie an sich. »Wo ist der Strom?« rief er mit Tränen. »Siehst du nicht seinen blauen Wellen über uns?« Er sah hinauf, und der blaue Strom floß leise über ihrem Haupte. »Wo sind wir, liebe Mathilde?« »Bei unsern Eltern.« »Bleiben wir zusammen?« »Ewig«, versetzte sie, indem sie ihre Lippen an die seinigen drückte, und ihn so umschloß, daß sie nicht wieder von ihm konnte. Sie sagte ihm ein wunderbares geheimes Wort in den Mund, was sein ganzes Wesen durchklang. Er wollte es wiederholen, als sein Großvater rief, und er aufwachte. Er hätte sein Leben darum geben mögen, das Wort noch zu wissen.

 

The thoughts of his soul flowed together in strange dreams. A deep blue stream shimmered from the green plain. A boat floated on the smooth surface. Mathilde sat and rowed. She was adorned with wreaths, sang a simple song, and gazed at him with sweet melancholy. His chest was heavy. He didn't know why. The sky was serene, the tide calm. Her heavenly face was reflected in the waves. Suddenly, the boat began to turn. He called to her anxiously. She smiled and put the oar into the boat, which continued to turn. A tremendous fear seized him. He threw himself into the stream; but he couldn't get away; the water carried him. She beckoned; she seemed to want to say something to him; the boat was already filling with water; yet she smiled with indescribable sincerity and gazed serenely into the whirlpool. Suddenly, they were drawn downwards. A gentle breeze swept over the stream, which flowed just as calmly and brilliantly as before. The terrible fear robbed him of consciousness. His heart had stopped beating. He only came to when he felt himself on dry ground. He must have swum far. It was a strange region. He didn't know what had happened to him. His mind was gone. Thoughtlessly, he walked deeper into the land. He felt terribly weak. A small spring flowed from a hill, sonorous as chimes. He scooped a few drops with his hand and wet his dry lips. Like an anxious dream, the terrible event lay behind him. On and on he walked; flowers and trees spoke to him. He felt so comfortable and at home. Then he heard the simple song again. He ran after the music. Suddenly, someone held him back by his robe. "Dear Heinrich," called a familiar voice. He looked around, and Mathilde caught him in her arms. "Why did you run from me, dear heart?" she said, breathing deeply. "I could barely catch up with you." Heinrich wept. He pressed her to him. "Where is the river?" he cried with tears. "Don't you see its blue waves above us?" He looked up, and the blue river flowed softly over their heads. "Where are we, dear Mathilde?" "With our parents." "Will we stay together?" "Forever," she replied, pressing her lips to his and clasping him tightly, so that she could not tear herself away from him. She spoke a wonderful, secret word into his mouth, which resonated through his entire being. He was about to repeat it when his grandfather called, and he awoke. He would have given his life to remember that word.

                                                                                     -- Novalis, Heinrich von Ofterdingen

 

How much of my work has been inspired by dreams! Yet where do dreams come from? Last night I dreamt of something that I knew could only happen in a dream. And yet, at the time of the dream, I was certain that it wasn’t a dream. I am one of those people who could not ride a bike until I dreamed that I was riding one. (This is not an uncommon phenomenon.) People often speak of finding solutions to their problems in dreams. I have never received the “solution” to a problematic story in that manner, but I have received true inspiration for some of my stories. A satisfying dream always has a good story at its core. Not to mention new experiences, plenty of exciting action, interesting settings, and sometimes even a lesson. But in the end, our dreams fade, and so often upon waking we forget—and know we have forgotten—some pivotal insight that was given to us in a dream.

The Poetry of Novalis

Einst da ich bittre Tränen vergoß, da in Schmerz aufgelöst meine Hoffnung zerrann, und ich einsam stand am dürren Hügel, der in engen, dunkeln Raum die Gestalt meines Lebens barg – einsam, wie noch kein Einsamer war, von unsäglicher Angst getrieben – kraftlos, nur ein Gedanken des Elends noch. – Wie ich da nach Hülfe umherschaute, vorwärts nicht konnte und rückwärts nicht, und am fliehenden, verlöschten Leben mit unendlicher Sehnsucht hing: – da kam aus blauen Fernen – von den Höhen meiner alten Seligkeit ein Dämmerungsschauer – und mit einem Male riß das Band der Geburt – des Lichtes Fessel.

                                                                               --Novalis, Hymnen an die Nacht, 3

Once when I shed bitter tears, when my hope dissolved in pain and I stood alone on the barren hill that concealed the shape of my life in a narrow, dark space—as alone as no lonely person had ever been, driven by unspeakable fear—powerless, only an idea of misery. As I looked around for help, unable to go forward or back, and clinging with endless longing to the fleeing, extinguished life; there came from the blue distance—from the heights of my old bliss—a twilight shiver, and suddenly the bond of birth—the fetters of light—were broken.

Novalis, in his prose writing, especially his fragments, is an explorer: observing, pondering, developing half-formed, tentative ideas. His prose work is insightful but contingent.

     But in his poetry, he is a prophet: intuitive, confident, wise. His fragments are speculative, but his poetry (which sometimes, as with the above fragment, takes the form of what is commonly called “prose poetry”) is consummate, imperative, visionary, sure.

"The poet's sayings have a magical power"

 

Wir haben uns freilich nie um die Geheimnisse der Dichter bekümmert, wenn wir gleich mit Vergnügen ihrem Gesange zugehört. Es mag wohl wahr sein, daß eine besondere Gestirnung dazu gehört, wenn ein Dichter zur Welt kommen soll; denn es ist gewiß eine recht wunderbare Sache mit dieser Kunst. Auch sind die andern Künste gar sehr davon unterschieden, und lassen sich weit eher begreifen. Bei den Malern und Tonkünstlern kann man leicht einsehn, wie es zugeht, und mit Fleiß und Geduld läßt sich beides lernen. Die Töne liegen schon in den Saiten, und es gehört nur eine Fertigkeit dazu, diese zu bewegen, um jene in einer reizenden Folge aufzuwecken. Bei den Bildern ist die Natur die herrlichste Lehrmeisterin. Sie erzeugt unzählige schöne und wunderliche Figuren, gibt die Farben, das Licht und den Schatten, und so kann eine geübte Hand, ein richtiges Auge, und die Kenntnis von der Bereitung und Vermischung der Farben, die Natur auf das vollkommenste nachahmen. Wie natürlich ist daher auch die Wirkung dieser Künste, das Wohlgefallen an ihren Werken, zu begreifen. Der Gesang der Nachtigall, das Sausen des Windes, und die herrlichen Lichter, Farben und Gestalten gefallen uns, weil sie unsere Sinne angenehm beschäftigen; und da unsere Sinne dazu von der Natur, die auch jenes hervorbringt, so eingerichtet sind, so muß uns auch die künstliche Nachahmung der Natur gefallen. Die Natur will selbst auch einen Genuß von ihrer großen Künstlichkeit haben, und darum hat sie sich in Menschen verwandelt, wo sie nun selber sich über ihre Herrlichkeit freut, das Angenehme und Liebliche von den Dingen absondert, und es auf solche Art allein hervorbringt, daß sie es auf mannigfaltigere Weise, und zu allen Zeiten und allen Orten haben und genießen kann. Dagegen ist von der Dichtkunst sonst nirgends äußerlich etwas anzutreffen. Auch schafft sie nichts mit Werkzeugen und Händen; das Auge und das Ohr vernehmen nichts davon: denn das bloße Hören der Worte ist nicht die eigentliche Wirkung dieser geheimen Kunst. Es ist alles innerlich, und wie jene Künstler die äußern Sinne mit angenehmen Empfindungen erfüllen, so erfüllt der Dichter das inwendige Heiligtum des Gemüts mit neuen, wunderbaren und gefälligen Gedanken. Er weiß jene geheimen Kräfte in uns nach Belieben zu erregen, und gibt uns durch Worte eine unbekannte herrliche Welt zu vernehmen. Wie aus tiefen Höhlen steigen alte und künftige Zeiten, unzählige Menschen, wunderbare Gegenden, und die seltsamsten Begebenheiten in uns herauf, und entreißen uns der bekannten Gegenwart. Man hört fremde Worte und weiß doch, was sie bedeuten sollen. Eine magische Gewalt üben die Sprüche des Dichters aus; auch die gewöhnlichen Worte kommen in reizenden Klängen vor, und berauschen die festgebannten Zuhörer.

We have certainly never troubled ourselves about the secrets of poets, although we have listened to their songs with pleasure. It may well be true that a special constellation is required for a poet to be born; for this art is certainly a truly wonderful thing. The other arts are very different from it and are much easier to understand. With painters and musicians one can easily understand their faculties, and with diligence and patience one can learn both. The notes are already in the strings, and only skill is required to move the latter and awaken them in a charming sequence. When it comes to pictures, nature is the most wonderful teacher. She creates innumerable beautiful and strange forms, provides the colors, the light and the shadow, and so, a practiced hand, a good eye, and knowledge of the preparation and mixing of colors is necessary to imitate nature most perfectly. How easy, then, are the effects of these arts and the pleasure they impart, to understand. The song of the nightingale, the rushing of the wind, and the magnificent lights, colors, and shapes please us because they pleasantly occupy our senses; and since our senses are so equipped for this by nature, which produces these things, we must also like the artificial imitation of nature. Nature itself wants to enjoy its great artificiality, and therefore it has transformed itself into human beings, where it now rejoices in its own glory, separates the pleasant and lovely from all things, and produces it in such a way that we can have and enjoy it in more diverse ways, and at all times and in all places. On the other hand, nothing of poetry can be found externally anywhere else. Nor does it create anything with tools or hands; the eye and ear perceive nothing of it, for merely hearing the words is not the real effect of this secret art. It is all internal, and just as those other artists fill the external senses with pleasant sensations, so the poet fills the inner sanctuary of the mind with new, wonderful, and pleasant thoughts. He knows how to arouse those secret powers in us at will and allows us to perceive an unknown, magnificent world through words. As if emanating from deep caves, ancient and future times, countless people, wonderful regions, and the strangest events rise up within us and tear us away from the familiar present. One hears strange language and yet grasps what it means. The poet's sayings have a magical power; even the ordinary words appear as charming sounds and intoxicate the spellbound listeners.

                                                                                         --Novalis, Heinrich von Ofterdingen

 

Poetry is able to accomplish the “magical” in the way Novalis describes because of the almost infinite elasticity of language. Words can summon up the unknown and make it manifest because of their ability to bridge the outside world and inner consciousness. And words are easily understood (at least their superficial meanings) and instantly comprehended, drawing forth a response from the reader or listener that needs no background understanding (such background understanding can enrich--but can also obscure--the reader’s experience of a poem). On the other hand, the impalpability of poetry means that it lacks the full visual impact of painting, sculpture, or architecture, and the full auditory impression of music (even though, in the art of song, poetry and music are combined). I remember that a prominent poet once said to me he had taken up jewelry-making as a hobby, “. . . because words are so intangible.” The lapidary arts allowed him to express himself in a more material way than words and ideas would allow. But he didn’t give up on poetry, and he continues to write hundreds of poems on every subject, real or ideal, under the sun.  

Inspiration

Dichter und Priester waren im Anfang Eins. Und nur spätere Zeiten haben sie getrennt. Der echte Dichter ist aber immer Priester, so wie der echte Priester immer Dichter geblieben. Und sollte nicht die Zukunft den alten Zustand der Dinge wieder herbeiführen?

 Poet and priest were one in the beginning. Only later times separated them. But the true poet is always a priest, just as the true priest has always remained a poet. And should not the future bring about the old state of things again?

                                                                                                           --Novalis, Fragmente I

Whether or not Novalis is correct in his assertion, there is an element of mystery in all true poetry. The poet not only asserts what he or she knows, but also what the act of creating poetry itself reveals. The poet not only predicates what is known, but also what is not known and yet can still be expressed. This is one of the great powers of poetry. The poem itself influences the way that the poet creates. Novalis states that:

 Es gibt gewisse Dichtungen in uns, die einen ganz andern Charakter als die übrigen zu haben scheinen, denn sie sind vom Gefühle der Notwendigkeit begleitet, und doch ist schlechterdings kein äußrer Grund zu ihnen vorhanden. Es dünkt dem Menschen, als sei er in einem Gespräch begriffen, und irgendein unbekanntes, geistiges Wesen veranlasse ihn auf eine wunderbare Weise zur Entwicklung der evidentesten Gedanken. Dieses Wesen muß ein höheres Wesen sein, weil es sich mit ihm auf eine Art in Beziehung setzt, die keinem an Erscheinungen gebundenen Wesen möglich ist. Es muß ein homogenes Wesen sein, weil es ihn wie ein geistiges Wesen behandelt und ihn nur zur seltensten Selbsttätigkeit auffordert. Dieses Ich höherer Art verhält sich zum Menschen wie der Mensch zur Natur oder der Weise zum Kinde.

There are certain poems within us that seem to have a completely different character from the others, for they are accompanied by a feeling of necessity, and yet there is absolutely no external reason for them. It seems to the human being that he is engaged in a conversation, and that some unknown spiritual being is causing him in a wonderful way to develop the most obvious thoughts. This must be a higher being, because it relates to one in a way that is not possible for any being bound to appearances. It must be a homogeneous being, because it treats him like a spiritual being and only rarely asks him to be self-active. This ego of a higher kind relates to humanity as a human does to nature or a wise person to a child. (Novalis, Fragmente I)

Call it intuition or inspiration, poetry can be a means of revealing much more than the poet knows or intends—the expression of a wisdom that transcends even the poet’s own limited personal experience or knowledge.

Poetry

 Poetry is an attempt to convey a reality that the poet has in some way experienced by attempting to capture its totality through metaphor. In such an endeavor, metaphorical language demonstrates superiority over mere descriptive language by incorporating both meaning and ambiguity (allowing for the poet to communicate the perceived and the intuited, the “seen” and “unseen” of reality). Novalis said, "Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason." The holistic experience of reality that metaphor engenders gives a poem its special texture, sometimes referred to as “mood,” that unique combination of sign and feeling. But feeling in this case refers to more than what is ordinarily understood as “feelings”; it is a kind of intuitional intersubjectivity and remains on the boundary of the expressed and the inexpressible by its very nature. That is why a poem will be understood in a number of different ways, depending on the mindset of the reader. The poet and the reader will inevitably have distinct experiences of the poem as well. But this does not mean that either experience is invalid. This “tension between congruence and incongruence” (Paul Ricoeur, The Metaphorical Process as Cognition, Imagination, and Feeling) is at the heart of metaphor, as it is at the heart of our conscious perception of totality. All art entails perceptual distortion by both artist and aesthete. But the metaphor, by its allusiveness and ambiguity, goes beyond this distortion to create in the reader a combination of experience and insight. All this has been expressed better and more clearly by others, but it is very much at the heart of my interest in poetry.

To Study Nature

 

Eine ganz eigne Liebe und Kindlichkeit gehört, nebst dem deutlichsten Verstände und dem ruhigsten Sinn, zum Studium der Natur. Wenn erst eine ganze Nation Leidenschaft für die Natur empfäht, und hier ein neues Band unter den Bürgern geknüpft wird, jeder Ort seine Naturforscher und Laboratorien hat, dann wird man erst Fortschritte auf dieser kolossalischen Bahn machen, die mit ihr im Verhältnis stehn.

 A very special love and childishness belongs to the study of nature, together with the clearest understanding and the calmest sense. Only when a whole nation feels passion for nature, and a new bond is forged among its citizens, and every place has naturalists and laboratories, will progress be made on this colossal exploration that stands in proportion to it.

                                                                                                                 —Novalis

 

To study and attempt to understand nature, and especially the dynamic relationships that exist in nature—is this not the best antidote to the artificiality that threatens to overwhelm our twenty-first century hearts and minds? Thomas Merton wrote about sitting on a rotten tree stump and finding a black widow spider living there. He reflected that, “It is strange to be so very close to something that could kill you, and not be defended by some kind of an invention. As if, wherever there was a problem in life, some machine would have to get there before you to negotiate it . . . As if the whole of reality were in the inventions that stand between us and the world: the inventions which have become our world.” (Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander) The bee teaches us that it needs no human-made tool to extract nectar from the flower; the tree, that it needs no plastic straw to drink from the soil; and the bird, that it doesn’t need GPS to find its way home. I am not saying that certain technologies aren’t useful or even beneficial, but nature reminds us that they are not always necessary. And our technical prowess is not a basis for certainty, nor is technology consistently reliable or useful in every circumstance. The deuterocanonical book of Baruch ends with the Letter of Jeremiah concerning idols. The author ridicules so-called gods that are made by human hands, and at one point writes, “Bats and swallows alight on their bodies and heads—any bird, and cats as well. Know, therefore, that they are not gods; do not fear them.” (Baruch 6:21-22) I think about piles of old computers that I have seen sitting in disposal lots, and how these ingenious devices are now the homes of pigeons and mice, and I think to myself, “They are not gods; do not fear them.”

Poetry

Unsere Sprache ist entweder mechanisch, atomistisch, oder dynamisch. Die echt poetische Sprache soll aber organisch, lebendig sein. Wie oft fühlt man die Armut an Worten, um mehre Ideen mit Einem Schlage zu treffen.                                                                 

Our language is either mechanical, atomistic, or dynamic. But truly poetic language should be organic, alive. How often does one feel the poverty of a words’ ability to express several ideas at once.

                                                                                              --Novalis, Blütenstaub

 

Here lies the difference between nature and everyday language. Nature is all simultaneity. But everyday language uses lists, plots, beginnings and endings. Poetry must express itself in the manner of nature, implying the interconnectedness of all things, all stories, the visible and the invisible. Things are often metaphors for other things, ideas often metaphors for other ideas, the visible for the invisible, but the connection may not be obvious until it is revealed by poetic language, which (as in the Song of Songs, for example) can even express the transcendent.

The Snails

 Einst gingen zwei Jünglinge spazieren und fanden im Fahrweg einige Schnecken, die sie, besorgt, daß sie von einem Fuhrwagen zerdrückt werden möchten, in den Busch dabei warfen. »Ihr Mutwilligen«, riefen die Schnecken, »warum stört ihr uns aus unsrer friedlichen Ruhe und werft uns so mutwillig hierher.«

     Menschenbrüder, mit wem hadert ihr, wenn euch ein kleines Ungemach geschieht? Mit einem Allweisen? O! ihr Kurzsichtigen!

 

On one occasion, two youths went for a walk and found some snails on the roadway, which they threw into the bush, afraid they might be crushed by a wagon. "You mischievous ones," cried the snails, "why are you disturbing our peace and wantonly throwing us about?"

     Brothers and sisters, with whom do you quarrel when a little trouble befalls you? With an All-Wise? Oh, you short-sighted ones!

                                                                                    --Novalis, “Die Schnecken”

 

Because we are truly children of God, we want to understand all things.  But because we are obstinate children, we are not willing to be taught.  To perceive is to know how little we know.  Instead of waiting for the story to unfold, we demand the climax on the first page.  And when the train is traveling to strange and harsh and mysterious lands, we insist on getting off at the nearest stop.

 

Pinecone

 

Die Welt muß romantisiert werden . . . Indem ich dem Gemeinen einen hohen Sinn, dem Gewöhnlichen ein geheimnisvolles Ansehn, dem Bekannten die Würde des Unbekannten, dem Endlichen einen unendlichen Schein gebe, so romantisiere ich es. 

The world must be romanticized . . . By giving the common a lofty meaning, the ordinary a mysterious status, the known, the dignity of the unknown, the finite an infinite appearance, I romanticize it.

                                                                    --Novalis, Logologische Fragmente I

I remember the first time I studied a pinecone, when I was just a small child.  It was in a city park.  I had never seen one before, and I was awed by its beauty, symmetry, combination of simplicity and intricacy, its patterns and colors, its perfection.  This wonderful object of nature embodied all the miraculous mystery and the magnificence of life that only a child would understand.  It mirrored the entire creation, all that was seen and unseen, said and unsaid.  A pinecone--or the universe.

Dog Paddling

 

Die meisten Menschen wollen nicht eher schwimmen, als bis sie es können.

Most people will not try to swim before they are able to.

This is probably the most famous line of Novalis, thanks to Harry Haller quoting it approvingly in Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf. The irony is that it is contradicted by the behavior of most would-be writers, who tend to write before they are actually able to do it properly. (Perhaps this is true with all the arts.) I know that, in my own case, I have written for years (grant proposals, articles, reports, newsletters, verse, and finally, after many years, fiction) without ever having the basics of English grammar fully in my grasp. I hated the subject of grammar in school (although I thought that the phrase “vowel diphthong” was funny, and I was glad that some verbs were finally getting the help they needed), but I do have to confess that in the end I found more useful writing tools in the study of linguistics (on my own) and music theory than anywhere else. I’ve picked up a few grammar tips here and there, though I can’t think of a more interesting use of words from a creative standpoint than the reversing of homophones in a sentence: “Nothing compliments a meal like a nice complement on the cooking.” “Of coarse, it’s important not to make it course.” Language play is so important to me! When I write, I find that allusiveness, polysemy, tropes, in-jokes, idioms, and innuendos—as well as the musicality of language—matter more to me than plot and characterization, although they are useful props to hang those other things on. To be honest, I do care about plot and characterization, although I tend to think of the whole more in terms of mood and message than anything else. And those things can best be expressed with the tools of metaphor, intimation, sound play, allegory, and the like. Sometimes, when I’m stuck, especially while editing, I go to composing software (like MuseScore 3) and use my minimal piano skills to compose a little something. It makes it so much easier to return to editing or writing—to find the right word or phrase. As James Joyce wrote in Finnegans Wake, “Bite my laughters, drink my tears. Pore into me, volumes, spell me stark and spill me swooning, I just don’t care what my thwarters think.”

    I’ve always rebelled against certain orthographic conventions (mostly in the realm of punctuation). But as much as one might like to throw out all convention, there are rules that must be followed in order to be able to communicate with the reader. On the other hand, an author like Joyce continually overrode linguistic conventions and gave us something completely amazing and unique. It’s interesting to note, however, that the line from Finnegans Wake, “—Three quarks for Muster Mark!” uses traditional sentence structure, which helps us penetrate its opaqueness. Suppose it had been written as “—Muster three Mark quarks for!” Its meaning would be completely obscured. (Generative grammar theory attempts to give us some good explanations as to why this is the case.) But the truth is that a somewhat more unusual sentence structure could have been employed by Joyce that would still have given us a sense of its meaning, something like, “For Muster Mark—three quarks!” This is not to say that Joyce didn’t break down normal sentence structure in Finnegans Wake—but he did so at a cost to intelligibility, and very few authors can dance on the terrifying knife edge between incoherence and ambiguity as Joyce did. It is usually safer to stay with “Three quarks for Muster Mark!” though I personally prefer “For Muster Mark—three quarks!” because it adds a sense of immediacy to the words.

     Sometimes it’s better to jump right in rather than stand at the side of the pool—but one has to be ready for a little discomfort and a lot of dog paddling.

Novalis, Geistliche Lieder, II

 

Fern im Osten wird es helle,
Graue Zeiten werden jung;
Aus der lichten Farbenquelle
Einen langen tiefen Trunk!
Alter Sehnsucht heilige Gewährung,
Süße Lieb in göttlicher Verklärung!
 
Endlich kommt zur Erde nieder
Aller Himmel selges Kind,
Schaffend im Gesang weht wieder
Um die Erde Lebenswind,
Weht zu neuen ewig lichten Flammen
Längst verstiebte Funken hier zusammen.
 
Überall entspringt aus Grüften
Neues Leben, neues Blut;
Ewgen Frieden uns zu stiften,
Taucht er in die Lebensflut;
Steht mit vollen Händen in der Mitte,
Liebevoll gewärtig jeder Bitte,
 
Lasse seine milden Blicke
Tief in deine Seele gehn,
Und von seinem ewgen Glücke
Sollst du dich ergriffen sehn.
Alle Herzen, Geister und die Sinnen
Werden einen neuen Tanz beginnen.
 
Greife dreist nach seinen Händen,
Präge dir sein Antlitz ein,
Mußt dich immer nach ihm wenden,
Blüte nach dem Sonnenschein;
Wirst du nur das ganze Herz ihm zeigen,
Bleibt er wie ein treues Weib dir eigen.
 
Unser ist sie nun geworden,
Gottheit, die uns oft erschreckt,
Hat im Süden und im Norden
Himmelskeime rasch geweckt,
Und so laßt im vollen Gottes-Garten,
Treu uns jede Knosp und Blüte warten.
 
 
From distant east our dayspring grows,
Grey times will be young,
And in the light are shades of rose,
A beverage to rejuvenate,
So that our holy longing knows
The sacred love his presence shows.
 
For us descends upon the earth
Heaven’s fairest child.
From all creation’s song of mirth,
The brightest wind of life itself,
A fiery storm that heralds birth.
Fresh embers to renew our worth.
 
Now from their tombs, the dead arise,
By new life—new blood!
To grant peace for us as the prize,
He dives into the flood of life,
Amidst us with full hands and eyes
And listening for all our sighs,
 
His gaze so tender toward our fall,
Glancing at our souls,
And joyful is his gentle call
For all those longing to be held.
Our hearts and senses now recall
Those spirits dancing with us all.
 
So let our hands stretch forth in grace,
Turning to his help,
Marked by his presence and his face
As flowers after morning dawns.
His heart alone will you embrace;
The faithful lover of our race.
 
All is ripe for our possession,
He, the one we feared,
North and south with great procession,
Germs of stars, which fast awaken
God’s own garden now in session,
Buds that call the rains to freshen.
 
                                                    —Novalis, Geistliche Lieder, II

Pentecost

                                                   Treib ihn von dir in unsern Arm,

                                                   Daß er von deinem Hauch noch warm;

                                                   In schweren Wolken sammle ihn

                                                   Und laß ihn so hernieder ziehn.

                                                  In kühlen Strömen send ihn her,

                                                  In Feuerflammen lodre er,

                                                  In Luft und Öl, in Klang und Tau

                                                  Durchdring er unsrer Erde Bau.

                                                  Send him forth from you into our arms,

                                                  While he is still warmed by your breath.

                                                  Collect him in the heavy clouds

                                                  And let him come down like this.

                                                  In cooling streams, send him here,

                                                  He, in flames of fire,

                                                  In air and oil, in sound and dew,

                                                  Penetrating our earthly abode.

                                                           --from Novalis, Geistliche Lieder, XII

Novalis, Geistliche Lieder, XIII

Wenn in bangen trüben Stunden

Unser Herz beinah verzagt,

Wenn von Krankheit überwunden

Angst in unserm Innern nagt;

Wir der Treugeliebten denken,

Wie sie Gram und Kummer drückt,

Wolken unsern Blick beschränken,

Die kein Hoffnungsstrahl durchblickt:

O! dann neigt sich Gott herüber,

Seine Liebe kommt uns nah,

Sehnen wir uns dann hinüber

Steht sein Engel vor uns da,

Bringt den Kelch des frischen Lebens,

Lispelt Mut und Trost uns zu;

Und wir beten nicht vergebens

Auch für die Geliebten Ruh.

When, in hours obscured by anxiety,

Our hearts almost despairing,

When, overcome by illness,

Fear devouring us within,

We, who wish to be faithful, think

How faith expresses grief and sorrow,

As clouds limit our view,

And allow us no ray of hope:

O! then God hovers over us,

His love comes close.

So let us desire to go

With the angel who stands before us,

Bringing a cup of new life,

Whispering courage and comfort--

That we do not ask in vain

For our beloved rest.

                                           --Novalis, Geistliche Lieder, XIII